


Guard My Heart

by DAfan7711



Series: Beyond Circle, Beyond Order [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Mages (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Seekers, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a Templar. She was a Seeker. Ten years after the Inquisition, they are the top Lieutenants in the guard at the Independent College of Magi in Lothering. As long-time friends Stanley and Rachel protect two enchanters during an investigation into demon attacks, it gets harder for them to keep a professional distance. Then Stanley is taken prisoner by someone who wants the former Seeker to start another war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I dream of you

It wasn’t the first time Stanley had a wet dream about Rachel, but it was the first time a demon had entered his dreams and tried to posses him.

He stood behind her, running his hands down her straight auburn hair, against her strong bare back to run his thumbs along the waistband of her breeches, his arousal so tight against his own pants he didn’t know if he could wait until they were both naked.

He placed a kiss to her soft shoulder and groaned out her name.

With a sigh, she turned to him and he blinked.

“You’re not her,” he said, easing a step backward as she tried to catch his lips.

The form in front of him was shorter, her forehead coming to his chin; her fertile curves missing the scars and highly-trained muscle of his dream-Rachel.

She pouted and batted her eyelashes, sashaying closer to press her full breasts against his naked chest.

“No.” His voice sounded hollow in his own ears. He felt like he was walking under the water of a mire, his face, arms, and legs sluggishly struggling forward as he turned to reach for his sword he’d taken off when he and his dream-Rachel had removed their armor.

Then everything moved too fast: The form in front of him shrieked and lashed out with purple talons as a rage and an envy demon popped up on either side of it. Stanley spun sideways and swung his blade with both hands, barely dodging a stream of Rage’s fire as he lopped off its head.

Pointed horns and pointed teeth revealed, covered by only a thin chain and tassels, Desire approached in a floating bounce, toes pointed down, never touching the muddy brown ground of the Fade. He dodged again, but swiping purple nails raked across his right forearm to draw blood.

Ignoring the sting, he pirouetted toward Desire instead of away. Before he could finish the upward swing with his blade, he tripped over the spindly legs of Envy and fell to his back.

Envy flipped itself over with spidery legs to show its eyeless white face mutilated with red lines.

_Fuck. This was definitely not in the training manual._

As a young Templar in the Inquisition, he’d faced wraiths, rages, and terrors, but he had been low in the ranks and had only Commander Cullen’s well-edited accounts of how to defeat Desire.

Envy . . . he’d never heard of anyone defeating Envy. What the fuck was it doing here? Envy and Desire were supposed to be solitary and subtle, but the two demons bearing down on him now seemed ready to tear him apart, when just a minute ago Desire had seemed very interested in possessing him.

The two demons lunged forward—then froze and exploded into ice shards.

Stanley scrambled to his feet just in time to see a red-headed mage spin into a fade-step out of his dream.

“Enchanter Stella!”

She was gone, but her voice came to him in a whisper in his head. _You need to wake up now._

He groaned and forced his eyes open to look at the underside of the bunk above him. The barracks were filled with soft shuffling and sniffing sounds as the guards each reached for wakefulness. Most were sitting up, haunted eyes staring at nothing. A few had bruises and scratches, one a bloody nose, and some still twitched in dreams in their beds.

He rolled to his side and pushed himself up to sit hunched on the edge of his bunk, hissing when the movement pulled at his injured forearm. Blood seeped through the right sleeve of his shirt, the fabric sticking to deep scratches.

“Rachel.”

“Hmm?” She answered from the top bunk.

He rose to his feet and turned to face her. They were almost nose-to-nose. She lay on her back, head turned, deep brown eyes blinking at him.

“You okay?” he asked. As a former Seeker, Rachel couldn’t be possessed, but she could still be maimed. Killed. It was his worst fear.

“I’m not physically hurt.” She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. “That your blood?”

He nodded.

“Let’s get you to a healer.”

-

His eyes were this liquid green . . .

 _Focus, Lieutenant._ Of course Stanley’s eyes were green. Always have been. There was no reason to be thinking about his eyes when he was bleeding and they’d been under demon attacks every night for three bloody weeks.

He was the same as when they’d met in Haven after the Conclave. He was the same as when they’d guarded refugees on the long march to Skyhold. He was the same as when they’d followed Connor and Dagna to Lothering to build the College ten years ago.

He was the same. So was she.

So why was she thinking about his liquid green eyes and trying to ignore a growing heat within her?

 _Sleep deprivation, that’s all._ When they were safe again, when she was well-rested and thinking clearly, if she still had an urge for a man, she would find some merchant or farmer traveling through Lothering. Not accost her best friend.

“You okay?” Stanley asked.

Shit. His voice was low, gravely, thick with sleep. And sexier than anything she’d ever heard. Ever. She clenched her knees together under the blanket.

 _He’s injured. You’re in the barracks with a bunch of other people. You are_ not _going to jump Stanley. Ever._

“Let’s get you to a healer.”


	2. Your mission, your secrets

Rachel threw a jacket on over her night shirt and breeches and walked with Stanley down to the infirmary, where—thank the Maker—the oily scent of elfroot overpowered the enticing hint of peppermint Stanley seemed to always carry on his collar. Then the stench of charred flesh hit and pushed all thoughts of sex from her mind: mages lay on cots, some groaning, some unconscious, while healers wrapped burned hands and arms in white linens. Stanley hadn’t been the only one accosted by the all-too-common rage demon last night.

“What hit you?” A balding healer in brown robes bustled over and guided Stanley to sit on a stool by a waist-high table holding a shallow, oblong steel basin.

“Scratched by a desire demon.”

“Second time this week,” the healer muttered. “We’re going to have to send to Denerim or Amaranthine for more ingredients.

“Here,” he handed him a wooden dowel, “Bite down on this and put your arm in the basin. First, take your shirt off and dump it in the middle fireplace. Try not to touch the damaged sleeve—in case there’s any lingering magic.”

Rachel’s throat went dry as Stanley whisked his shirt overhead with his left hand to reveal his rippling bare back. What was wrong with her? It’s not like she’d never seen his back before. In the summers he sparred or went swimming shirtless. In the field, during the Inquisition, in the heat of battle, they’d bound each other’s wounds. The knife scar on his lower left side was as familiar to her as the arrow puncture scars near her right shoulder blade.

“Shite,” he hissed as the shirt pulled free from where it was imbedded into his deep scratches, and she felt even guiltier for ogling.

Magic flames of orange and green danced in the middle fireplace. The other two hearths held basic wood fires for warmth. Stanley dumped the ruined shirt into the magic flames, which swiftly burned the garment without noise or scent. He sat back on the stool and eased his right arm into the empty steel basin with a sigh.

“That’s nice and cool. Arm’s swollen as fuck.” He gave her a faint smile. “Haven’t been to a healer in a while; it’s almost as scary as I remember. Glad you’re here to keep me company.”

“Me, too.”

Before the silence could get awkward, the healer was back with a little glass bottle containing a viscous potion the color of melted gold. “Bite down on that dowel, Lieutenant. This is going to sting and I don’t want you to puncture your own lip or scream loud enough to scare away my other patients.”

Stanley did as he was told and visibly relaxed his shoulders as he watched the healer uncap the bottle.

When the first drop of fluid hit his arm, he flinched and grunted. Rachel instinctively gripped his left shoulder and he reached up to clutch her hand, breathing out through his nose.

The healer poured a steady stream of the gold liquid. Hissing green bubbles flowed out of the scratches like boiling blood and Stanley gave a muffled cry of alarm around the dowel.

“What the fuck, healer!” Rachel spoke on his behalf.

The mage frowned at her. “Got to wash all the Fade out of that wound.” He kept pouring until the potion ran completely gold with no more green.

The healer brought over a fresh basin with hot water to wash the wounds, applied a poultice, and bandaged up Stanley’s arm.

“Missed the tendons. He’ll be fine.” The healer turned to return unused dressings to a woven basket, then muttered under his breath, “Just as long as he didn’t bring a friend back with him.”

Shock coursed through her. Could Stanley be possessed?

Judging from the wide-eyed look her friend gave her, he had heard the comment, too.

-

Stanley hoped the healer was paranoid.

No way was he possessed. The desire demon had given up and tried to kill him. Hadn’t it? The healer had to be paranoid.

As they left the infirmary, Rachel nicked a shirt from a clean laundry bin. “Here,” she handed it over without looking at him.

What was her problem this morning? She wouldn’t look him in the eye. She was only an inch taller than his own five-eight, so eye contact was usually very easy. At least twenty times a day they’d share a grin behind Mira’s back or an eye roll from across the courtyard.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He pulled the borrowed shirt on over his head. It was a bit tight in the shoulders, but it was clean and the loose sleeves didn’t pull on his bandaged arm.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Guard Captain Mira met them in the doorway. “There you are. The Grand Enchanter would like to meet with you two. Go change and head straight over.”

“What’d we do?” Stanley asked and Rachel elbowed him in the ribs. Mira just smiled and walked off.

 “Can we eat first?” he called after her.

“Yes!” she called over her shoulder.

-

After dressing in their uniforms and grabbing a hasty breakfast in the mess, they walked to the Grand Enchanter’s office, where Arcanist Dagna ushered them in to sit across from Connor. Stanley blinked in surprise when Dagna stepped back in front of him, holding out a little silver amulet.

“Just sit still a second,” Dagna said.

“Ow!” An invisible force smacked him in the face and chest and he teetered on the back legs of his chair before slamming back down.

“Sorry,” she giggled, not sounding at all sorry. “Just had to be sure.”

Then she stepped in front of Rachel.

“She was a Seeker,” Stanley grumbled. “It’s impossible for her to be possessed.”

“Can never be too careful,” Dagna quipped, as cheerfully as a little girl who’d just discovered ponies could fly over rainbows.

She held out the amulet and Rachel grunted, but didn’t tip in her chair.

Dagna put the amulet back into her pocket and went to stand by Connor, who was eying him very closely. Stanley resisted the urge to squirm in his seat.

“You encountered a demon?” Connor asked.

“Three.”

Their expressions didn’t change, but the growing silence said it all: No one else had been targeted to such an extent.

“Which?” Rachel asked.

He wished she was across from him, instead of seated by his side, so he could see her reaction while he watched Dagna and Connor.

“Rage.” He took a breath. “Desire.”

Dagna snuck a glance at Rachel. So much for secrets. He hoped they wouldn’t make him elaborate on what the desire demon had offered. What would Rachel do if she thought her proximity put him in danger? The last thing he wanted was to be parted from her.

“And . . . Envy.”

Connor sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together.

“How in the blighted hell do you kill an envy demon?” Rachel asked.

“I didn’t.” He turned to her, no longer able to resist looking at her. “Enchanter Stella blasted it apart with ice, along with the desire demon. All I had to do was lop the head off of Rage.”

“All you had to do . . .” Rachel shook her head. “You know, for an ex-Templar, you’re awfully modest.”

He couldn’t help but give her his cheekiest smile for that. Her lips twitched, warming his insides, but she neither grinned back, nor blushed.

“And you?” Dagna asked Rachel.

“A stray mabari crying for help, leading me down a tangled forest path. Enchanter Stella killed it.”

Icy fingers plucked away whatever humor lingered in his heart. Rachel’s account was very dry, but she had to have come just as close to death last night as he had. Her dream was more subtle, more real. The kind where you were dead before you knew it was a trap.

“They need to know.” Dagna’s comment brought his attention back to the Grand Enchanter. “If the twins are in the dark, their guards need to know.”

“Sending us somewhere?” Rachel asked.

“Yes. To the Circle.” Connor had never sounded so grim. “We have had contact from Jowan, the blood mage who was once my tutor.”

Rachel sat up straighter. “Had contact?”

“He’s dead. I hadn’t heard from him in twenty years, then the Guard Captain found his body next to the College well. He’d been stabbed in the side of the neck, and clutched a tome in his arms, along with a letter of confession—addressed to me—about poisoning my father.”

“This was right before the demon dreams started?” Rachel asked. “You think blood magic contaminated our well.”

“We do.”

“Grand Enchanter,” Stanley said. “Why tell us, but not Enchanter Stella or Enchanter Rane?”

“If I’m wrong . . .” Connor sent Dagna a wan look and she squeezed his hand. “If I’m wrong, I don’t want them to miss some clue because they’re distracted by my theory.”

“Theory?” Stanley shifted in his seat. “With the body by the well, I’d say it’s a near certainty.”

“Certain or no, I ask you to not share this knowledge with Rane and Stella. She saved a lot of us last night and I fear we’re going to ask a lot more.”

“I don’t understand,” Stanley said. “What do you want her to do?”

Connor wouldn’t elaborate on that point.

“Go with them while they determine if the Circle is also a target—”

“Or the culprit,” Stanley muttered.

Connor gave him his usual kind smile and continued as if Stanley hadn’t spoken. “You’ll listen to a bedtime story every night.” He ignored Stanley’s snort of amusement. “Listen to every story Stella reads you. You will travel in peace and return to us with answers.”

Stanley opened his mouth to ask again what Connor feared Stella would have to do, but Rachel seemed to think he’d poked enough.

“We will do as you ask,” she said. Her tan jaw, straight posture, and steady gaze gave nothing away.

For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t guess what she was thinking.

“Have you had Lyrium?” Dagna’s question took him by surprise.

“Not since Skyhold.”

The withdrawal had wracked his body and mind for weeks—he had been so parched he lost his voice for a month—and it had taken another year of shakes and nightmares before his hand stopped reaching for the philter he no longer carried. Rachel had watched over him. Without her, he would be dead.

“Vivienne’s Templars may offer you some,” Dagna said.

“I won’t take it.”

“Jowan was killed with a Lyrium knife,” Dagna continued. “Whatever’s behind this can bend Lyrium to its will.”

“Whatever?” Stanley asked. “You think it’s possession?”

“I think it’s Pride.”

“Pride?” Rachel leaned back and crossed her arms. “Those fuckers are huge.”

Stanley had seen the Herald take one down at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He hoped to never encounter another.

“Yes,” Dagna said. “Jowan was too fearful to be possessed by Pride, so he was murdered on our grounds. We’ve been poisoned by blood magic.”


	3. Val Royeaux

She didn’t like keeping secrets from Rane and Stella, but Rachel trusted Connor and Dagna’s judgment and would do as they asked. After their meeting, she and Stanley packed lean saddlebags and tended their morning duties. It was early afternoon when they saddled their horses to depart.

The twins weren’t there yet, so Stanley wandered down the row of stalls to talk with the horsemaster, leaving Rachel to fuss over the mabari who lived in the stables.

“Hey, Wrinkles.” She got down on one knee to give the dog a belly rub.

Raised white scars from a barn fire covered the mabari’s sleek muscles like stretched vines with no leaves, growing longer over the years as she matured from pup to full-grown guardian.

“How’s my girl?”

Wrinkles rolled over and gave a happy woof. She cleaned Rachel’s face with sloppy kisses and sniffed at her pockets, looking for treats.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Jowan, baby?” Rachel continued in a sing-song voice. “You sleeping in Horsemaster Ahearn’s bed instead of guarding the stables?”

The blood mage and whoever—or whatever—had killed him had gotten past the humans patrolling the grounds, too—unless they’d slipped in with a delegation of visitors and found a place to hide within the grounds. It was not a comfortable thought.

Wrinkles gave another happy woof and scampered down the aisle. She plopped her rump down in front of Stanley and tugged on the hem of his jerkin with her teeth until he pulled a rawhide out of his pocket and handed it over with a chuckle. Wrinkles flopped down and chewed in earnest.

Rachel let out a wistful sigh.

“He’s available, you know.”

“Arcanist!” Rachel spun around to find Dagna, who smiled and squeezed her elbow.

“Here,” Dagna placed a square little something into Rachel’s hand, “a gift from the Hero.”

“But she’s dead.”

Dagna laughed. “She gave it to me before she died, after saving the Circle from a pride demon. It’s the oldest copy of the Litany of Adralla, to combat blood mages’ mind control. You don’t even have to read it; just keep it on you.”

Rachel looked down to the leather-bound book in her hand. It was barely as big as her palm.

“It’s tiny.”

Dagna laughed again. “Size doesn’t designate power! Have a safe trip.”

Then Stella, Rane, and Connor came down the steps from the main keep. Rachel led her horse over to meet them and they were off.

-

They made camp before nightfall. Her blood still humming from the sweet picture Stanley had made with Wrinkles, Rachel was grateful Rane and Stella were there. She’d think of them as chaperones who kept her from saying something stupid or jumping him.

 “How’s your sword arm?” She asked as they unfurled their bedrolls by the fire.

“Not bad. It stopped seeping. I’m stiff, but I should be ready to spar again tomorrow.”

She nodded and rose to her feet. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Hey, Rachel,” he reached up to grab her arm, oblivious to how the gentle grip singed her like fire. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

She nodded again and went to patrol the perimeter.

-

Good thing Stanley liked his traveling companions, or he would have been bored by the long ride.

He and Rachel sparred daily with wood practice swords. They had to be more careful about their language than when they were with other guards at home, but it was a fun novelty to have Rane and Stella cheering them on, and Stella had this awesome talent for generating a thin layer of ice to soothe over his injured arm when it was sore.

At twenty, Rane and Stella were a dozen years his junior and sixteen years younger than Rachel, but they played a bold hand of Wicked Grace and nearly matched Connor for magical power.

The twins were both witty; Rane was more likely to blurt things out without thinking them to death first. Rachel and Stanley always had plenty to talk about. And all four of them were comfortable riding in silence.

They camped near the well-traveled road, and sometimes found an inn so all four of them could sleep through the night instead of setting a watch. Each night Enchanter Stella read a story in her strong, flowing voice, her Dreamer magic sending them into peaceful sleep with no demon nightmares. It was fun to hear stories from his childhood with an adult ear, and to discover those he’d missed, like Rachel’s favorite about a mabari puppy who wanted a little girl of her very own. They all had happy endings and that lifted his spirit.

Seeing the White Spire as they rode in to Val Royeaux reminded him that their mission was dangerous. If Vivienne was the culprit, would he and Rachel be enough to protect the twins? If the Orlesian Circle was also victim to the attacks, what then? And if Pride attacked the College when their only Dreamer was weeks away in Orlais . . . He didn’t want to think about it.

Mid-day they arrived at the high-class inn Connor told them to use and Rachel went in with an official letter from the Grand Enchanter of the College. The round-faced proprietor bustled out immediately to greet the agents of King Alistair’s cousin and offered them the suite reserved for Ferelden’s royal family.

The twins sent a messenger to the Circle to request an audience.

“We probably won’t hear back before morning,” Stella said. “Vivienne will want to control the visit. I don’t think there’s anything else we need to do before dinner.”

Rachel wanted to give their horses a treat, so Stanley charmed the cook into giving them four juicy apples and followed Rachel down to the courtyard. The scent of fresh hay and warm animals enveloped them. The stable hands had already given their mounts a good rub down.

Rachel made sweet cooing noises while she massaged her Forder’s neck and the mare ate the apple from her flat palm.

“Rest up, my brave warrior,” she whispered in the mare’s ear, wrapping an arm around the animal’s long neck. “In just a day or two we’ll be on the long road home again.”

They gave the other horses a friendly pat and left the stables. On the short walk back to the inn, they met someone they hadn’t seen since the Inquisitor had stepped down from her post to become Queen of Ferelden.

Michel de Chevin approached them with a warm smile. Commander Rutherford had recruited him when they were at Skyhold. When the Inquisition was restructured ten years ago into an independent service organization for the poor and displaced, Michel and the commander stayed on to serve.

Stanley had fond memories of sharing a pint with Michel in Herald’s Rest at Skyhold.

“Ser Michel!” Rachel said. “We’re pleased to see Orlais’ Champion again.”

“Long ago I lost that honor.” His perfect hair barely moved when he shook his head.

Michel was blond, a gorgeous gold like King Alistair, instead of Stanley’s blah mix of ash and honey. He was trimmer than Stanley, taller than Stanley.

Rachel admired Michel and he was now bending to kiss her hand.

Stanley hated him.

“Whatever the Empress now thinks of you,” Rachel went on brightly, “I saw you win. You’re a Champion, Ser Michel.”

Stanley wanted to kick his teeth in. It must have shown on his face, for Michel politely bowed to them both and continued on his way. Rachel watched him walk away, puzzled.

“I thought we were going to have a pint, catch up.”

“He knows we’re on duty,” Stanley grumbled. He put an arm around her waist to guide her toward the inn.

-

Stanley’s powerful arm across her hips erased all thoughts of their old drinking buddy. Stanley’s touch was warm and gentle. And as unrelenting as The Stone. His heat gave her shivers.

“Cold?”

“I’ll be okay.” She hoped she sounded normal. “I’m sure they have a nice fire built up inside.”

When they neared the doorway, he let his arm slide away, thumb brushing past her backside, and she almost whimpered a plea for him to touch her again.

Maker, they had to play cards or something with Rane and Stella, or she was going to drag him off to the nearest broom cupboard for a quickie. She didn’t know if that’s what he wanted and she didn’t want to fuck up their friendship for just a few minutes—Hours? Days? Months? Years?—of sexual release.

_That messenger better get back soon, so we can get this over with._

-

He shouldn’t have touched her. Andraste’s flames, he should not have touched her.

Tantalizing electric shocks ran up his hand into his chest until he let his arm drop, inadvertently brushing past her ass to send a jolt into his groin. The tactile memory tingled across his skin. His throat tightened and he fought to breathe normally, not huff down her neck like some lecher. A roaring whirlwind surged in his mind. He felt his pulse pound like a war march in his thickening dick.

“You go on up,” he said. “I’ll ask the kitchen staff to send dinner up.”

“Thanks, Stanley.” Her sweet smile nearly made him come right there.

He gave a curt nod and spun on his heel toward the kitchen. Not paying attention to the words, he stumbled through some kind of request the lead cook seemed to find endearing, and hurried out again.

_Shite. Fu—no, don’t think that word._

He couldn’t let her see him like this, as weak and uncontrollable as a wild animal who fu—follows every instinct. Stanley stumbled down a side hallway and found himself leaning on the narrow door of a broom cupboard.

_Really? Am I—_

When he heard footsteps approaching from around the corner, he yanked the door open and hid inside. The footsteps passed by without turning down his hallway and the silence drove his pounding heart from his ears down to join the marching pulse in his balls.

He sighed and leaned back against the cool stone wall, surprised the heat of his skin didn’t fill the tiny room with steam.

Biting back a groan, he unlaced his breeches to free his thick cock, tip already wet. Left arm flat against the cool wall to keep upright, he reached for himself with his sword arm and flicked his thumb over the tip. He hissed out a breath and closed his eyes. Head back against the stone, mouth open in silent ecstasy, he slid his hand down his shaft, massaged his balls, gave himself a squeeze, and started pumping.

Two swift thrusts and he was writhing. Four more and he was panting. Then his hand took on a frenzied pace he couldn’t track.

“Rachel,” he whispered, and came in his own hand.

The aftershocks were bittersweet. What would she think of him if she knew?

He cleaned himself the best he could with his pocket handkerchief and laced his breeches, sighing as he tied the knot.

 _I can’t face her alone right now._ He hoped Rane and Stella wanted to play Wicked Grace.

When Stanley got back to the twins’ room, they were already washed and in their night robes, Rane absent mindedly shuffling a deck of cards where he sat on the king-size Ferelden bed.

“Hey, Stanley.” Stella never called him Lieutenant. “This inn has an incredible bath: the staff carts the water out after each use and puts in fresh boiling water right before you get in."

“No wonder King Alistair stays here,” Stanley quipped. “I think I’ll check it out.”

The last inn had a communal bath that was changed daily, and you just had to hope the people who used it before you weren’t disgustingly dirty. When camping, they washed their faces from their water skins or took turns, ladies first, bathing in streams bordered by bushes.

Maker be praised. A fresh bath.

-

Rachel hummed a happy tune. A hot bath behind a locked door was a rare luxury for someone used to tepid water and thin privacy screens in the barracks.

She left her long hair loose to dry, dressed in her only spare outfit, and went out into the hall to give her uniform to a servant who would have it cleaned overnight.

While servants bustled in with fresh water, Stanley came out the opposite door. He gave her his most devastating I’m-a-desirable-man smile and she felt her cheeks heat. She hoped her tan hid her blush.

She was wet from more than hot bathwater. She’d envisioned that smile while she bathed, thought about him taking her nipples between his teeth and thrusting into her as she pleasured herself in the tub.

What would he think of her if he knew? They were no longer Seeker and Templar and Mira didn’t care about fraternization as long as it didn’t interfere with your duties, but . . .

Would he panic? Would he laugh? Be insulted?

She took an extra step sideways, careful not to brush her aching breasts against Stanley’s thick arm on her way to the twins’ room, and asked Rane to deal a hand of cards.

-

Vivienne’s Circle messenger arrived mid-morning the next day and the four College representatives, unsure of what they would find, made the short ride to the White Spire.


	4. White Spire, single mattress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne’s conversation is detailed in chapter 2 of The Independent College of Magi (Rane and Stella’s story, rated Teen). Stella figures out how to cure the demon dreams in chapter 3.

Stanley wasn’t sure what they’d find at the White Spire, except fervent Loyalist mages and fervent Loyalist Templars leashed to Grand Enchanter Vivienne, expert of the deadly Game. She’d been known as Madame de Fer, the lady of iron, even before establishing the new Circle in direct competition with the Independent College of Magi.

And this Circle, these mages and Templars, weren’t supervised by the Chantry or the Empire. Vivienne was the law.

While he fully supported Leliana’s—he still had trouble thinking of her as Divine Victoria—move to dissolve the old Circles and declare all mages free to govern themselves, he understood the ideological fear and bodily desperation that kept Loyalists bound to the new Circle. Their faith and lives would shatter without it.

He remembered being a Chantry tool and a thrall of Lyrium. Stanley was certain the Maker and Andraste wanted him to remain free—wanted everyone to be free—and yet he felt only sympathy for those trapped in the way of the Circle, leader and servant alike. He would not judge or harry, but, if the Circle attacked, he would fight to the death to protect Stella, Rane, and Rachel.

A guard of six Templars met them at the gate and led them on foot up white stone steps that reached into the sky. Sunshine gleaned off polished helms that hid their faces.

“I’ve never met a Templar before,” Rane told the leader brightly. “Do you like working here?”

Stanley bit his tongue so he wouldn't laugh at Rane's bald-faced lie. Vivienne's guard grunted in response.

“Our guards love our annual picnic,” Rane went on. “Do you have something like that?”

For that fib, Stanley couldn't contain an amused snort.

When they approached the keep’s threshold, he watched Stella carefully. If the stone’s Fade memories harbored any demons, she’d know as soon as they entered the doorway. She brushed her hand against the doorframe as they passed and met his eye with a gentle shake of her head.

Then she asked a Templar something, but Stanley didn’t hear: he saw movement to their right and slowed to look.

Two Templars met in a side hall, heads bent in furtive whispers as one handed the other a fistful of blue vials—but the shade of blue was all wrong.

Stanley didn’t realize he’d veered from their path until Rachel hissed for him to catch up. He scowled and quickened his pace to walk beside her.

“You know as well as I do there’s something wrong with those potions,” he muttered to her. “Best-case scenario, they’ll puke for a few days. Worst case . . .”

“We can’t help them, Stanley.” Rachel was kind, but firm. “If the Circle has a problem, Vivienne will have to deal with it.”

He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to. Their mission was to get Stella and Rane home alive.

Even with Rachel at his side, and two of Thedas’ most powerful enchanters in front of him, nerves settled in Stanley’s stomach when they crammed into a small room with another half-dozen silently hostile Templars.

“A bit of overkill, don’t you think?” Rane whispered to his sister.

Stanley hoped there wouldn’t be any killing at all.

Vivienne’s formal study was as ostentatious as he expected. Her manners as haughty as he expected. He kept an eye on the door and Templars, only half-listening to what Rane and Stella had to say. Stella handled the conversation as deftly as any veteran of the Game, leaving Vivienne no option but to sniff and walk out.

“Good luck with your research,” Vivienne said. “I’m sure your little school misses you.”

More armed Templars escorted them to the front gate to collect their horses and leave. As soon as they were clear from the walls, a wave of euphoric relief washed over him.

“Well,” Stanley said, “that went well. I think we all deserve a fancy dinner and a hot bath.”

Rachel hiccupped a little sound of alarm and he turned to look. Her stoic face didn’t tell him anything.

-

Rachel hurried through her bath, conscious of the late hour, and joined her travel companions in front of the twins’ fire for their daily bedtime story.

“I like the one about the mabari who wants to find herself her own girl,” Stanley said, winking at her. He knew it was her favorite.

She gave him a shy smile.

_What am I, a little schoolgirl? Of course my best friend noticed my favorite story._

Rachel hugged her knees to her chest, rested her chin on her forearms, and stared blankly into the fire as Stella read the best story from her childhood. It was similar to how she'd found her own first dog, but she would have loved the story regardless.

_“One fine day in Ferelden, a mabari puppy named Anne decided she wanted a little girl of her very own. A girl strong enough to throw sticks. A friend to play hide-and-seek with in the autumn leaves. Someone who liked puppy kisses . . ._

_“ . . . and so the mabari puppy and her girl curled into the blankets and drifted into sweet dreams. And all was well in Ferelden.”_

Stanley stretched and got to his feet. “Thank you, Enchanter Stella. I think my favorite part is when they go fishing and the dog prances around the stream without catching anything.”

Rachel laughed. “Of course it is.” Give Stanley a fishing pole and you wouldn’t see him all day. Send Wrinkles with him and he wouldn’t bring any fish back, just a wet dog.

He offered Rachel a hand up, his warm fingers lingering just a little too long, like he might want to hold hands, before he released her.

Warm tingles danced in her palm as they bade the twins good night and Stanley followed her into the adjoining room and shut the door behind him.

A servant had built a fire in the hearth. An orange glow flickered over the simple wash basin, single straight back chair, and bunk beds. A thick woven rug sat in front of the fire.

“That went well,” Stanley said, so close behind her she could feel his warm, moist breath on her ear. “Circle dealt with, kids put to bed . . .”

She took another step to put some distance between them.

She felt his eyes like a hot touch. He watched her sit on the edge of his bunk to take her boots off. She tucked them under the bed and got up to take off her jacket and hang it over the corner of the top bunk. No way would she shed anything further here, alone together with Stanley in close quarters, without the privacy screens they had in the barracks.

She turned back to say goodnight and found him standing directly in front of her, eyes serious. The tiny space between them was heavy with heat.

“I’m glad we came out of today unscathed.” His breath brushed her face.

“Me, too.” Her voice was so quiet she almost couldn’t hear herself speak.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“I—what?” Her heart galloped so hard in her chest she wondered if he heard it.

His gaze moved to her mouth. He smiled and looked up.

“A kiss. You know, mouths meet, lips touch, a smooch . . .”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Really?” He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head forward, waiting to see what she would do.

He had to be flirting, teasing. He couldn’t know what he did to her insides. Best to get it over with.

She briefly pressed their lips together and leaned back.

She thought she’d sufficiently braced herself. Wrong. However chaste, she would never forget how Stanley’s mouth felt against her own: strong and gentle, sweet and salty, hot enough to burn a wet hole in her belly.

He smirked. “They call that the Ferelden Farewell where you come from? In Starkhaven, we—”

“Argh, Stanley!” she growled, and yanked him over by his collar to devour his mouth.

Hands on his cheeks, she caught both his lips between hers with a moist sucking sound. He groaned and gripped her hips, eagerly opening his mouth for her to thrust her tongue inside. Black, white, and silver stars exploded behind her eyes as their tongues wrestled. She traced his teeth and inside his lower lip, mapped the inside of his mouth with her tongue, committed every glorious detail to memory in her heart.

Between gasping breaths, his mouth grappled with hers, open, wet, hot.

“What do you mean?” Stella’s voice broke through the heavy heat clouding Rachel’s mind and she jerked back to look at the closed door. The enchanters’ low murmurs continued. They probably hadn’t heard them.

Stanley gave a contented sigh and Rachel realized she still held his face between her hands. Before she could pull back, he placed his hands over hers to hold them in place.

“If that’s goodbye,” he breathed, “I’m looking forward to hello.” He massaged his thumbs in circles over the knuckles where her thumbs met her hands.

“I’m thinking I’ll sleep on the rug in front of the fire tonight,” he said.

She laughed and eased her hands out of his gentle hold. “I’m too old to sleep on a stone floor. If we don’t have to camp, I’m taking a mattress, and there’s only room for one.”

He took a respectful step back, but the heat didn’t leave his eyes and there was no joke in his next comment.

“I’m only four years your junior, and we’re not old.”

He put such innuendo into that last part that she paused and seriously considered risking it, even though Rane and Stella might overhear them and their connecting door didn’t have a lock on this side.

But Stanley was already putting his boots next to hers under his bunk and climbing into bed.

“Sleep well, Rachel.”

“Goodnight.” She climbed into the top bunk and rolled onto her right side to watch the dying firelight dance on the wall.

A fresh spark of interest coursed through her when she saw his shirt go flying from below her and bounce off the chair to lie on the floor. She rolled over to look at the wall against her bed rail, resolved to sleep alone.

At least for tonight.

-

Stanley didn’t think Rachel would come down and crawl into the narrow bunk with him, but he slept on his side with his back to the wall, leaving that opportunity open. He would love to wake to find her in his arms.

He woke alone when Stella knocked an hour before dawn.

“I’d like to leave as soon as it’s light. I know how to read the storybook to get rid of the College’s demon dreams. I’m anxious to get home.”


	5. Lyrium-burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Depression, date rape drugs, rape, suicide, and Stanley remembers when his addiction was used to coerce him into sex. This chapter is one fictional character’s viewpoint. If you have questions or need help, please consider contacting a licensed healthcare professional who specializes in your area of concern.

By the time they made camp the first night out of Val Royeaux, Stanley’s euphoria from escaping the Spire died. Eliminating Vivienne as a suspect meant Connor and Dagna’s “theory” about Pride was correct. Who had Pride possessed to stab Jowan?

Should they disobey Connor’s orders and tell the twins about the body? No, Connor hadn’t told Rachel and Stanley everything either, and they had to trust in whatever complex plans the Grand Enchanter and Arcanist had devised.

Depression slunk in and sat on him like a bronto. It’d been eighteen months since the last bout. He recognized the spiral of negative thoughts and hated how helpless they made him. Knowing what it was didn’t make it hurt any less, or make it any easier to function. Faced with a straight-up fight, he’d automatically reach for his sword, but he dreaded the thought of extracting himself from his bedroll in the morning, much less riding all day.

Whenever this numb pressure filled his chest, there was one memory he couldn’t keep out. Lyrium had eaten at least three days out from his memories and countless others were muddled, but this one—Lyrium had burned this one into his soul. He could not forget.

With sober clarity he remembered what had been hazy back in Haven after the Conclave explosion. It’d been at least thirty-seven hours since his last Lyrium draft, the philter in his belt pouch was empty, and he had no kit. His commanding officer said there was a supply problem; the Ambassador was working on it. Everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the Herald to return from a Chantry meeting in Val Royeaux, but Stanley’s brain was too foggy to care.

He sat at the counter in The Singing Maiden tavern, trying to dull his gnawing craving with ale. It wasn’t working. All it did was make him queasy.

_Just one. Just one draft and I could think, be normal._

A mage with a small midsection and ample breasts slid on to the stool next to him. “I’ll have what he’s having,” she told Flissa in a high, adolescent pitch, though her complexion made her look at least ten years his senior. He didn’t recognize her. Maybe her accent was Marcher? He would know any mage native to his Starkhaven home, and was certain he hadn’t seen her when he’d followed Knight-Captain Rylen to Kirkwall to help Cullen and Aveline restore order.

“Wow, when my Mistress said we were to visit the great Inquisition, I thought we’d be in a real city, not some barn crawling with Fereldans.”

Stanley stared down into his mug. “Haven’s a sanctuary,” he mumbled.

“Yes, too bad all those people got themselves blown up.”

He blinked at her, mouth agape, and froze when he saw her running index finger along her lower lip. It came away blue. A single drop of Lyrium potion beaded in the center of her lip. She winked at him and licked it off.

“Thirsty? Hey, tavern wench, give us a refill.”

“I’m the owner.” Flissa slammed two mugs down. “Not a prostitute.”

The mage shrugged and handed Stanley a drink. “Bottom’s up.”

His stomach already hurt too much, but he automatically took what was offered and drank more ale. He stared blankly at the wall behind the bar while the visitor blathered on about whatever she wanted.

He didn’t listen. He didn’t care. His brain was too busy trudging through sludge.

He needed a Lyrium draft. His stomach lurched and dizziness hit him. Or maybe he needed a healer.

“Pardon me, I have duties to tend to.” Stanley slowly rose from his seat and stumbled against the counter.

“Oh, you poor dear.” The mage jumped up and put an arm around his waist. “One too many, I see. I can help you to the apothecary.”

He leaned heavily on her shoulder, blurry eyes on his dragging his feet. She took a right out the tavern door. Adan’s cabin was to the left.

“Apothecary’s otherway,” he slurred.

There were some stone stairs—he nearly fell—a snow-bordered path . . .

“Here we are,” she said cheerfully, guiding him into a stuffy cabin with a large fire in the grate and sitting him down on the edge of the bed.

“Tay—” Even his voice was lethargic. “Taigen’s cabin.” It was a solitary building on the other side of the lake from everything else. “He’s dead.”

“Then I’m sure he won’t mind we use it for our little rendezvous.” She removed his pauldrons and put them by the fireplace where he couldn’t reach.

He blinked his cloudy mind through that. “No.”

“No?”

“No, we shouldn’t.” He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out and he fell back on the bed, darkness covering his vision.

He woke to find himself naked in the center of the bed, the mage straddling his thigh, dangling a little blue vial over his face. He lunged up for it, but she dangled it back over her shoulder.

“Oh no, this one’s mine; this particular blend is way too strong for you.” She ran a hand around the back of his neck and he shivered in disgust. “But a little taste from my mouth shouldn’t kill you.” She forced her hungry mouth down on his and his lips desperately tried to leech some Lyrium.

She shoved him on his back with a laugh. “Those,” the mage pointed over her shoulder to a table near the fire, where a row of three perfectly blue philters lay on their sides. “Those are safe for you, and I’ll let you have a sip—not a vial, a sip—every time you make me come.”

His bleary eyes widened in shock and she laughed again.

“Don’t worry about how limp you are right now, little man. Just a zap,” she poked his shoulder with a finger covered in purple lightning.

“Ow!”

“—and I’ll have you up for all kinds of things.” She breathed Lyrium vapors in his face.

During the next hour of torment, his body’s demand for the potion overrode the despairing cry of his heart.

_Just one more draft before I die, just one more. Then I can die._

The door slammed open. Seeker Pentaghast stormed in, shoved a spell purge across the room, and yanked the visiting mage off the bed.

“I told you to stay away from the Templars!” she shouted.

“I have diplomatic immunity!” the mage shrieked in outrage and struggled in the Seeker’s unwavering grip. She lifted a hand to slap, but Cassandra caught her wrist. “Hit me, and I’ll turn you over to the Nightingale.”

Fear flicked across the mage’s face. “I have immunity.”

“Not from me.” Cassandra looked to another Seeker who entered behind her. “Check him.”

Chocolate brown eyes appeared to search his face. A strong, sword-calloused, gentle finger checked his pulse. It was a tan, smooth-skinned woman about his age. She had powerful shoulders and a halo of straight auburn wisps had escaped the braid around her head to frame her concerned face.

The Seeker he didn’t know sighed in relief and covered him up to his chin with the heavy blanket that had fallen to the floor. “Stay still,” her voice was rich music so beautiful it broke his already-cracked heart. “We’ll help you.

“He’s conscious, but needs a healer.”

Her voice took on an edge. “He’s also gone too long without a draft. We could lose him to withdrawal.”

No! Lyrium withdrawal was one of the few types of withdrawal that could actually kill you. He’d heard about the screams, contorted bodies—and those who didn’t wait for death, but leapt into its arms by falling on their own swords.

Cassandra’s colleague picked up a half-empty philter and gave it a sniff. “That blend from Val Royeaux,” she said in disgust. “Did you give him any?”

“No,” the mage scowled. “That would kill him. I’m not stupid. We shared a friendly drink, and came back to my place to share some Chantry-approved Lyrium.” She gestured toward the table.

“Drink?” Cassandra asked sharply.

The other Seeker picked the mage’s robes up from the floor and pulled a little purple velvet pouch from the pocket. “This isn’t elfroot.

“ _Maiden’s demure_. Nobles use it to subdue reticent lovers. Didn’t know their lackeys could afford it.” She handed the robes to Cassandra, who shoved them into the mage’s hands.

“Dress,” Cassandra said. “I will see you to the gate.”

“But, my—”

“You leave Haven now.” Cassandra got in her face, poked a finger against her bare collarbone. “Sister Nightingale’s people will know everything you do, even when you use the chamber pot. If you so much as speak to another Templar, I will see to it that only the wolves find your remains.”

The mage hurriedly dressed and Cassandra saw her to the door.

“Rachel, stay with him. I will send the healer.”

_Rachel. Her name is Rachel._

“Would you like to try a sip of water?” She returned to his side, careful to not make any sudden movements, and offered a water skin.

He nodded, but found his head too heavy, his arms too loose to raise himself up. Shameful tears pooled in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away from her.

“Would you like me to help you sit up?”

He nodded again and felt her ease down to sit by his hip, slide a firm hand under his back, and use her toned arm under him to support his spine and neck, support his head with her shoulder. She lifted the water skin to his mouth and tipped it just a little bit to dampen his lips. Even so, he dribbled some and felt a fresh wave of shame. He was weaker than a child.

After three sips, she set the water skin aside and gently wiped his chin with a corner of the blanket and tucked the dry parts tighter around his shoulders, still holding him upright. Her firm warmth against his side made him feel human again.

“Seeker?” he croaked out.

“Yes, Stanley?”

So she knew his name. Of course Lady Pentaghast had told her. She would have to report this.

Everyone would know, from the rawest recruits to the Herald herself. His fellow Templars would know him bested by a mage. His commanding officer would tell him it’s not possible for a woman to take advantage of a man that way. Commander Cullen would believe Stanley and support him, but Cullen wasn’t Stanley’s direct supervisor. No one would want him to guard their back. Did he really want to live with that ongoing humiliation?

Perhaps this compassionate Seeker would put him out of his misery.

“Boil my blood,” he whispered, his lips already dry enough again to crack as he spoke.

She didn’t admonish him, just told him her simple truth:

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stanley. I will never hurt you.”

Mind imprisoned by the past, he sat on his bedroll, knees pulled up to his chest; face buried in his arm, as though shielding his face could shield his mind.

 “Stanley.”

He looked up, surprised to find his cheeks wet with silent tears. Rachel stood a few steps away, her eyes full of kind compassion. Rane and Stella slept peacefully by the campfire.

Throat thick with sorrow, he whispered, “I hate being so weak.”

She gently knelt down in front of him, keeping her hands to herself. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

He looked at her in wonder. How? How could he be? She was smart. She never lied. How could he be stronger than Connor, than Rane, their fellow guards, Michel? None of them fell apart like this.

“Stella’s storybook magic is still within us,” she said. “You should be able to sleep in peace.”

He nodded, crawled into his bedroll, and slept.

A good night’s sleep helped. His chest and mind were still heavy, but he could deal with it without crying.

He knew Depression could creep up on him again, or stampede over him without warning. He was going to ride on anyway, looking for those good moments his mind told him still existed even when his heart didn’t feel them. The dark thoughts circled at the edge of his consciousness like a wolf, but his three friends—Rane and Stella were now his friends, too, not just a job—kept him distracted.

Each spirited sparring session made his muscles remember it was good to be alive. Each night of peaceful sleep made it easier to cope, take another small step away from the precipice of despair. Twice he felt his mood back peddle further than his forward progress, but he picked up his reins and mounted anyway.

After a few weeks homebound, his smiles and jokes felt more natural. His chest and mind felt clear again. It was the quickest he’d ever recovered and he wondered if his deepening love for Rachel had expedited the process.

He was in love with her, even if she didn’t love him as more than a friend, and he would tell her someday soon, ready to live a long life with whatever answer she gave.


	6. From Haven to Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Withdrawal. References to and coping with the darker parts of the previous chapter.

“You’re the strongest man I know.” Rachel knelt in front of Stanley and decided not to touch him. If she told him now that she was in love with him, he might think it pity instead of truth.

“Stella’s storybook magic is still within us,” she said. “You should be able to sleep in peace.”

He nodded, crawled into his bedroll, and instantly fell asleep, more from emotional exhaustion than physical, she guessed.

She sighed and rose to patrol the perimeter. It was a still, starless night, with no distraction from dark memories.

Over the course of their eleven-year friendship, there was only one memory that made her best friend—the man she loved—curl into a ball: The night he’d been drugged, coerced, and used by a visiting mage in Haven. It was Rachel’s first day with the Inquisition, after following Seeker Pentaghast there from Val Royeaux.

Rachel had been visiting Val Royeaux during the Herald’s parley with the Chantry. She had snuck into the city to watch, ignoring Lord Seeker Lucius’ order to go to Caer Oswin. Lucius had seized control of the Templars and wielded them with fiery vengeance. He was wild with angry self-righteousness, openly disdainful of the people they were sworn to protect. It wasn’t religious fervor gone amok. This was something different. Whatever the common belief regarding Seekers’ immunity to possession, Rachel was certain it wasn’t Lucius in Lucius’ body. Without anyone to report to, she followed in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to do something.

When Lucius stormed out of Val Royeaux, Rachel followed Cassandra to Haven and offered her service. It was a place where mages and Templars worked together and refugees were considered humans worthy of respect. They were also looking to close the Breach and end the war.

Cassandra looked relieved by her offer. Yes, she said, they needed Rachel’s strong arm and gentle compassion. Rachel offered to buy her a pint in The Singing Maiden to discuss where she was most needed.

“Oh, Seeker Pentaghast!” the red-head proprietor of the tavern greeted them breathily. “Is Stanley okay?”

“Was he ill?” Cassandra asked.

“He had less than two servings,” Flissa said, “but looked pale as death and a mage said she’d help him to Adan’s.”

“Thank you. We will check on him.” Cassandra led the way left, up stone steps, and into the apothecary’s cabin to inquire after Stanley.

Adan hadn’t seen him.

“Shit,” Cassandra hissed under her breath, but Rachel heard her.

“An ill Templar accompanied by an unnamed visiting mage,” Rachel said. “Want to split up, or should we search together?”

“Stay with me,” Cassandra said. “I may need backup. We will start out by the main gate, in case she is trying to get him out of Haven.”

Cassandra strode through the village, past the tavern, down the steps, out the small gate, and headed right, past the lake. They didn’t make it all the way to the large gate, for they sensed the magic to their left and silently changed course, slowing their pace as they approached a lone cabin. Muffled protests and high-pitched laughs of pleasure mixed into a poisonous sound. Rachel wanted to vomit.

Cassandra jerked her head sideways, indicating Rachel should climb an outcropping of rock across from of the door. Rachel nodded and used juts of iron as footholds to climb to the top. When she was in position, sword and shield drawn to cover Cassandra if the mage had friends or tried to bolt, Rachel nodded and Cassandra kicked the door open.

The mage shrieked, but Cassandra’s spell purge was sufficient. Rachel tended to Stanley, Cassandra escorted the mage out of Haven—Chantry law would have had her turned Tranquil, but there was no Chantry authority here, and, as much as both Seekers wanted to kill the visitor, it would cause the Inquisition more harm than good—and Adan came with an elven healer, who deftly healed his minor wounds and gave him a dreamless sleeping balm.

Stanley’s breathing became stronger, more peaceful as he slept.

“For the first night only,” the healer said, handing another dose of the balm to Rachel. “He’s going to need to work through his nightmares. If he goes for more than two nights without sleep, he may take another sleeping balm. Make sure he gets a full draft of Lyrium when he wakes, drinks enough water to drown a bronto.” She looked around the cabin, lips angrily pursed at the smells of tainted Lyrium and fearful sex. “In the morning, he’ll need to be away from this cabin.”

“I have the Lyrium,” Commander Cullen entered with two pouches and a kit. “The right kind, fresh from Val Royeaux. Ambassador Montilyet has also cleared from her room to the right of the war room: It’s Stanley’s if he wants it when he wakes.”

Cullen looked to Rachel, his eyes traveling down to where Stanley clutched her hand in his sleep.

“Are you able to stay?” Cullen asked. “We two could take turns keeping watch, assist him in the morning if he wants it.”

Rachel nodded and the others left to tend to their duties.

Cullen sat in a straight back chair to Stanley’s right during his turns at watch, slept on the fur rug in front of the fire for those hours allotted as his time to rest.

Stanley hadn’t released Rachel’s hand, so she lay down on top of the blankets on his left when it was her turn for some shut-eye, and sat up when it was her turn to watch. Her warm arm noticed his shivering ribs, all-too prominent through the blanket.

 _Lyrium does that: leeches you into a shell._ _But without it, we may lose him . . ._

Shortly after dawn, his hand loosened from hers and he rubbed his eyes with a groan. She eased up off the bed and took a step back, letting Cullen take over.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Commander? I’m—” Stanley gasped and gripped the blankets with white knuckles. He sat up and looked wildly around the room, shoulders relaxing when he saw Rachel.

“It’s over,” Cullen said kindly, drawing Stanley’s attention again. “She’s gone, and there’s a clean room in the Chantry for you if you want it.”

Stanley was frozen with indecision.

“I have a fresh draft,” Cullen said.

Stanley’s hands spasmed.

“I’ll wait outside,” Rachel said. “Shout if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Stanley whispered.

Within a week, Stanley had been back on his feet, sparring with his fellow Templars and Inquisition soldiers. Rachel and Cassandra sometimes joined them. The Templars seemed less wary of Rachel than Lady Pentaghast, perhaps because she appreciated their jokes. Morale and tempers were all better managed since Lady Montilyet had secured a direct Lyrium deal with dwarven merchants.

Stanley went back to what Rachel assumed was life as usual, but, even though she hadn’t met him before, she was sure the haunted look behind his flashy smiles was new.

She was Fereldan and he was a Marcher, but Rachel and Stanley knew a lot of the same jokes, preferred the same ales, and held similar views on serving those in the most need. They worked so well in tandem, Cassandra and Cullen made them official partners for a mission to escort Hinterland refugees.

The week after that, the Herald closed the Breach and Corypheus descended on Haven with Red Templars and a dragon. Stanley and Rachel escorted Grand Enchanter Fiona, Connor, and twenty mage children out the back door of the Chantry, ten-year-old Rane and Stella clutching to Connor’s hands like he was the Maker himself. They followed Chancellor Roderick up the Pilgrimage path and never looked back.

The day after Lady Trevelyan miraculously stumbled out of the snow storm, she led them through the mountains to Skyhold, where all hands helped with earnest repairs. A fortnight after their arrival at the fortress, Stanley found Rachel sitting on a stump between the kitchens and stables, cleaning her blade.

“Rachel?” Her heart leapt into her throat at his tentative tone and she struggled to give him a smile instead of tears.

“Yes, Stanley?”

He held up a perfectly blue philter. “I don’t want this.”

She squeezed her lips shut and nodded.

“Will you help me?” He took a breath. “Like Lady Pentaghast helps Cullen?”

“Yes, Stanley.” Her heart shattered in her throat. She might lose him to madness or death. “Whatever you want.”

Even with books and advice from Cassandra and Cullen, Rachel’s very marrow was shaken by the ensuing weeks while Stanley’s body and mind waged bloody war with withdrawal.

“Withdrawal usually isn’t lethal,” the elven healer gave Rachel a stern look, “except in Lyrium cases, where nine times out of ten it is. He needs to drink more water than you think a human could hold. Paranoia is certain for the first week; see to it he doesn’t run off the edge of a cliff or balcony after some spirit only he can see.”

Somehow they got through those first two most volatile weeks, Rachel and Cullen taking turns by Stanley’s bedside, hands bruised from his sometimes-convulsive grips. Stanley trusted them both and none of them was willing to risk the safety of the healers until the initial symptoms had passed.

One evening when Cullen came to relieve her, his face looked more drawn than usual. Stanley was calmly asleep, breathing more easily than he had since dawn.

“Nightmares?” Rachel asked.

The Commander nodded.

“Cullen, if you need to sleep . . .”

“I can handle a watch.” He shooed her away from the chair so he could sit by Stanley. “You need sleep, too.”

“I’ll catch some sleep in the barn loft. Whistle out the window and I’ll be here in seconds.”

Two days later Stanley was well enough to return to the barracks. By the end of the first month, he’d regained most of his sword arm strength. He and Cullen were the only ex-Templars going without Lyrium, but they weren’t the only Haven survivors with nightmares, so Stanley wasn’t very self-conscious about that, and even back at Skyhold she’d had the bunk above him; she was happy to be close by when he needed to see a friendly face.

She’d selfishly claimed the bunk above his every night for the last ten years. Followed him when he followed Connor and Dagna to build the College. Oh, Stanley had assumed she wanted to go to Lothering too, had assumed she had the same thoughts pop into her head—and she very well might have gone to Lothering if she’d never met Stanley—but she went because she was in love with him—for the way his green eyes twinkled, how he treated all races as friends, was kind to animals, told raunchy jokes, deftly eliminated Terror and Despair demons—and she couldn’t stand to be parted from him, even if they’d never be more than friends.

Friends who had shared a very steamy kiss last night.

Rachel gave a sniffle and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She finished a circuit around the camp and moved nearer to the fire to check on Stella, Rane, and Stanley. All slept peacefully, thanks to Stella’s Dreamer magic, magic Stella said she’d been building up in the storybook so she’d have enough to cure everyone of demon dreams when they got home to the College.

But what of Pride?


	7. She loves you

Two weeks later, Rachel was relieved to hear a genuine laugh from Stanley as he rode next to Rane. He was on the mend and tomorrow they would be home.

Maybe after their debrief, he’d take a walk with her outside the walls. She would admit she loved him as more than a friend and live with whatever he decided. If her declaration made him uncomfortable, she would resign her post, go to Denerim. Surely King Alistair and Queen Margaret could use another experienced sword in their guard. And if Stanley was in Connor’s entourage the next time the Grand Enchanter visited the King, she could handle it—or swap someone for the night rotation.

They pulled off to camp by a stone well covered with a triangular roof of wood. Rachel and Stanley tended to the horses while Rane built a fire and Stella checked out the well. A dead pigeon floated in the water, so they made do with what they had in their water skins.

As the two guards rolled out their bedrolls, they were close enough to hear Stella muttering to Rane by the fire. They’d missed the first part of the conversation, but it was clear Stella was talking about the blood magic taint Connor hadn’t wanted them to discuss.

“That’s how it spread, from the well in the College courtyard.” Stella’s eyebrows furrowed in earnest concentration. “The more taint you carry, the easier it is for demons to find you in the Fade. Everybody drinks different amounts. The water troughs don’t need filling every day. It’s why it took so long for everyone to be affected, why the animals were the last to be attacked.”

Rane put another log in the fire.

“Blood in the water,” Stella whispered and sat back on her heels. “Blood in the water carried demons into our dreams.”

“Whose blood?” Rane asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m sure Connor and Dagna do, and they kept it from us.”

Stanley hunched his shoulders guiltily and loudly offered to take the first watch.

“Sounds good,” Rachel said.

The twins didn’t seem to realize they’d been overheard.

“Let’s read a story now,” Stella said. “I want to turn in early and leave at dawn.”

Rachel only half-listened as Stella read them a story about a grandmother knitting mittens with peppermint-flavored yarn you could eat. Stanley sat cross-legged, picking at the grass and shooting Rachel uncertain glances.

 _What?_ She mouthed silently.

_Later._

She frowned grouchily. He wanted to talk later. Well, by the Maker, they would. Tonight. Five minutes from now was “Later,” and as soon as the story was done, she was going to join him in his first walk of the perimeter.

“I need to stretch my legs,” Rachel said as the twins crawled into their bedrolls. “I’ll join you for the first lap.”

“Okay.” Stanley gave her a shy smile.

Since when was Stanley shy about anything?

“What’s on your mind?” she asked as soon as they were past the circle of light from the fire, entering the tree line of the wood that lined the main road.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Stanley.”

He sighed in frustration and turned to face her. “No, I’m _in_ love with you.”

Joy coursed through her veins and she gifted him with her brightest smile. “Good, because I’m _in_ love with you, too.”

“You—” he cocked his head sideways. “You are?”

“Yes,” she chuckled. “Ever since you told that dwarf his daytime fears were as valid as any Fade dream.”

“Oh.” He looked confused, then gave her an incredulous look. “Since Skyhold.”

Nerves suddenly clutched at her again. Maybe he was pissed she’d kept quiet.

But he chuckled, and took her hands in his. “Me, too. Since Skyhold, I mean. Dagna’s got to be laughing her romantic head off about the two of us.”

Rachel wasn’t going to wait for him to take the lead any more. “Can I kiss you?” She echoed his words from the fancy Val Royeaux inn, waited for him to bait her into explaining what a kiss was, but he wasn’t teasing tonight.

Without words, he leaned forward and claimed her mouth with his own.

She dropped his hands to run hers up his shoulders and into his short, thick hair. It was wavy and soft, and she’d always thought the color, a deep honey mixed with ashbark, looked delicious.

He moved his hands to her hips and guided her back a step to lean against a solid oak tree even broader than he was. Through her jacket and against her scalp the rough texture shot pleasurable jolts of lust through her limbs. The jolts bounced around her brain, rippled out like waves in a pond, and settled as a pool of wet need between her thighs.

This kiss was not as wild as what they’d shared in Val Royeaux, but it was more desperate in its own way. Loose lips and delving tongues met at a more languid pace, the heat and promise intensified. Each tilt, each taste, was like making love in different positions.

He framed her face with his hands, calloused thumbs brushing rhythmically across her jaw line as his lips drank from her lips. Each touch of his thumbs ran an echo of ripples through the nerves of her neck down into her breasts, where she felt her nipples pebble against her breastband, demanding release.

Stanley inched closer, pressing his erection into her thigh. He eased a knee up between her legs to rub the seam of her breeches in sweet excitement against her swollen need.

He gave her a last, gentle kiss and moved to breathe against her neck. “I’ve got first watch.”

“Yes,” she breathed back.

“Tomorrow, when we’re home,” he promised.

“Yes.”

His hands slid down and off her arms. She straightened and made her way to her solitary bedroll.

Stella was sound asleep, but Rane lay awake on his back with his hands folded across his stomach, watching the stars.

Rane turned his head to give her a wink. Rachel responded with a shy smile and they both rolled over to sleep.

-

“Sex isn’t some big mystery, Rane,” Stella insisted. “Just insert part b into slot a.”

Stanley choked back a laugh, uncertain if the young Enchanter had meant for anyone other than her brother to hear. He rode a few strides in front of the twins and Rachel rode behind as the rear guard.

Stanley’s “part b” certainly hadn’t understood why he’d promised Rachel they’d be together tonight instead of last night, but that’s why “part b” didn’t make all of his decisions for him—some, but not all. And if he kept thinking about his cock using the term “part b,” he would end up laughing and he’d have to explain what was so funny.

A few miles out from home, Stanley was heartened by a familiar landmark: half-hidden from the road by trees, they passed an ancient elven ruin with complex scrollwork around its archways. The roof had crumbled away and the stone halla guarding the gate were weather-worn, missing some antlers.

_We’re almost home._

They arrived back at the College an hour before sunset to find everyone in the courtyard waiting.

“What’s all this?” Stanley pointed to wagons full of rain barrels.

“Well’s off,” Mira said. “And the local stream still isn’t clean from the Fifth Blight. Grand Enchanter’s been shipping in fresh water since the day you left . . .”

Stanley had known about the first part, but not Connor’s plans to ship in water. Everyone looked well-rested. Had they really been without nightmares while the four of them were in Orlais?

“It was a blood taint in the well,” Stella told Connor flatly.

“Yes, if you read us the whole book now, the stories will make the water run clean again.”

“Whose blood was it?” Stella asked.

“Later.” Connor guided her to stand on a box near the well.

Stella read every story from the book aloud, ending with the happy line, "And all was well in Ferelden.”

Dagna tested a water sample with a simple silver amulet. When immersed, the amulet glowed gold. “It’s clean!”

Stanley gave a whoop and wrapped one arm around Rachel’s waist, draped the other over Rane’s shoulders. The courtyard was happy pandemonium, everyone talking at once. A few minutes later, Connor joined them.

The excited chatter went on for an hour before people started streaming back inside for dinner. Stella had slipped out early without talking to anyone but Dagna. With a confused frown, Rane trotted after her.

Stanley had his arm around Rachel’s waist again in companionable silence. They stood by the well, watching everyone else go in. The growing dusk felt very intimate. Soon they would be alone.

Except Connor approached. Rachel’s disappointed sigh out her nose mirrored his own internal irritation.

“I’m headed to my office—”

Dagna swept in and took Connor by the elbow. “We’ll see you two for de-brief after breakfast.”

“We will?” Connor asked.

“We will.” Dagna steered Connor toward the keep and sent them a wink over her shoulder.

Stanley groaned in relief, “Praise Andraste for that dwarf.”

“Agreed.” Rachel took him by the hand and led him toward the stables.

Excitement tingled in his belly—and elsewhere. “Where are we going?”

“The only place that doesn’t have people. Don’t worry, Wrinkles has already gone to bed in Ahearn’s cabin.”

She led him down the freshly-swept aisle, past several empty stalls, to the end stall full of new straw.

“Is this what you country girls do at night?” He slipped his hands along her backside to hold her hips.

“Get used to it, city boy.” She turned in his arms. “Privacy screens in the barracks aren’t enough for me.”

“Oh, I heartily approve,” he said against her lips.

He slipped his tongue inside for that electric taste that was pure Rachel: sweet chocolate and salty tears. She groaned into his mouth and wrapped a leg around him, arching and grinding her pelvis into his.

He came up for air, panting. “Keep doing that and you aren’t going to have enough time to get me naked.”

She giggled—giggled!—and lapped her hot, wet tongue up along the front of his throat.

With a growl, he swung the stall door closed behind them. The tiniest flicker of torchlight outlined the door from the other side, shining through to melt in the chocolate wonder of her eyes.

He dropped his sword and shield in the corner. She followed suit.

She took off her breastplate. So did he. He yanked off his jacket and shirt and tossed them over his shield. So did she. In a wordless race of who-can-get-naked-first, they toed off their boots and flung off all their clothes and gear until they stood panting with nothing between them but hot air.

“Rachel,” he whispered in awe, slowly sliding his open palm across her cheek, his heart pounding like he’d just sprinted in a race.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. He marveled at how this brave warrior, this brilliant and compassionate woman, enjoyed his touch.

“Good, because I’m _in_ love with you, too,” she had said last night. Of all the miracles she’d given him, that was the most amazing.

Desperate to show her how that miracle felt, he leaned forward to gently press his lips to hers, pour his heart, soul, mind into filling her with it. She gave a happy whimper and raised her hand to cover his against her cheek.

“Rachel,” he whispered again, moving from her lips to kiss her cheekbone, her eyelids.

She melted in his arms and he eased her onto her back in the fresh straw, smoothing away from her forehead stray auburn wisps that had come free from the braid wrapped around her head.

He laid more gentle kisses by her ear, down her neck, over her collarbone. Down her right breast. He paused and breathed against her skin there for a moment, enjoying how the moisture of his breath mixed with the heat of her skin. Her sigh of contentment turned to a gasp when he took her breast in his mouth in a hard suckle.

“Stanley!” She breathed out and then groaned when he teased her nipple between his teeth. “Oh, Stanley, this is exactly what I was thinking about.”

He gave her nipple another little suckle and kiss to sooth, then rested his chin on her abdomen.

“When?”

She blinked her eyes open to look down at him in confusion. “When what?”

To distract her, he smiled and drew little figure eights along her outer thigh with an index finger, making her shiver. “When did you think about me pleasuring you in that way?”

She blushed. “In the fancy inn in Val Royeaux, right after we fed the horses the apples . . . I, uh, was pleasuring myself in the hot bath and thinking about you.”

He barked out a laugh and she scowled at him. “Oh, Rachel,” he resumed tracing her thigh with his finger, “you should have joined me in the broom cupboard. I was there, pleasuring myself and thinking of you, while you were in the tub.”

“The . . .” She blushed again. “I’d considered dragging you off to the broom cupboard.”

“Good, but I’m sure we’re much more comfortable here.” Before she could respond, he took her other breast in his mouth and sucked until she was writhing, finally teasing her beaded nipple between his teeth to make her call out his name.

He traced open-mouthed kisses with lots of tongue down her belly, making his way lower and lower.

She gasped out, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He eased her right leg over his shoulder to open her wide and plunged his tongue inside, making her arch up in a silent scream of pleasure. Her tangy nectar was better than any honey or spice found in Ferelden. He savored great swallows of it as he worked his fingers in to help his tongue pleasure the woman who not only saved his life, but also saved his heart.

“I’m clo—”

He flicked his thumb over her clit and she crashed over the edge in silent ecstasy. He was reluctant to leave the taste of her behind, but she was reaching for where his cock throbbed against her other leg and twitching her hips.

“Stanley, please.”

Leaving his fingers inside to milk her aftershocks, he slid his tongue out, eased her leg down, and made the tortuously slow journey back up her belly, pausing to suck her breast again, test how her salty skin blended with her come.

She raised her knees. “Stanley, please.”

He slipped his fingers from inside her, tilted her hips up, and slid his thick cock tightly within.

“Hmm,” she lay her head back with her eyes closed and arched her neck up into his lips. She gripped his ass with one hand, wrapped her other arm around his shoulders and thrust up, tearing a joyous cry from his throat.

“Move,” she whispered, wrapped both her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder.

He gave three powerful thrusts with his hips and paused to savor this united moment deep within her, his tense muscles trembling with screams demanding fast strokes and a quick release.

“Hmm,” she moaned again and he let his hips take on a frenzied pace.

She whispered his name over and over in his ear as she clung to his shoulders, riding the pleasure that built between them. He neared the precipice.

“Rachel, I love you.” He spoke against her cheek and reached between them, ready to brush her clit. “Come for me.” He moved his thumb and her second orgasm washed over both of them as he spilled into her.

-

What came after made him just as happy. She let him snuggle close, guide her leg up over his hip. He massaged the arrow scars behind her shoulder, leaned his forehead against hers. They talked in whispers about the little things they always talked about, only now they felt deeper.

They eventually dozed off in each other’s arms.

A furtive shuffle at the door jolted them both awake, rolling for their swords. As his hand found his weapon, he heard Rachel grunt behind him and her blade clatter free against the stall wall. He tightened his muscles to roll toward the door too late: something heavy hit his head and he was enveloped in darkness.


	8. Pride

He was so sweet, her heart ached. Stanley cuddled in close and rested his forehead against hers as they lay on their sides in the warm cocoon of clean straw.

“Well,” she whispered, “Stella was wrong: There _is_ more to it than ‘insert part b into slot a.’”

Eyes closed in relaxed bliss, he chuckled against her cheek. “I wondered if you’d heard that.”

“She’s in love with Connor.”

He leaned back to meet her gaze. “Connor? He doesn’t . . . think about other people like that.”

Rachel smiled and he leaned forward again to nuzzle into her neck.

“I’m sure she understands that,” Rachel placed a kiss where his forehead met his hair.

“Stella will find her way,” Stanley brushed his fingers along Rachel’s arrow scars behind her shoulder. “Our young Enchanter always does.”

Rachel ran her palm along the raised scar on his lower left side, a memento from a knife-wielding Templar he’d saved her from in the Hinterlands. She lazily brushed her fingers along it and up and down his back to run her fingertips up through his hair.

Contented warmth and steady breathing soon had them both asleep.

-

Blood magic. She felt it less than a second before the stall door opened silently and filled with a human-sized shadow.

Rachel rolled for her sword, sensing more than seeing Stanley do the same, and only partially dodged a blow meant for her face. She caught it in the side of the head and grunted as her fingers missed her sword and knocked it clattering into the wall. Blinded by white stars in her head, she reached toward where she’d heard her weapon fall.

“Oomph,” and then no more sound from Stanley.

Miraculously, Rachel’s hand landed directly on her sword’s grip and she spun on her knees in the straw to face their attacker. They dragged something heavy.

 _Stanley!_ But her vocal chords were frozen and she couldn’t cry for backup.

Rachel lunged up and fell back to her knees, dizzy with more stars.

She heard a grunt of effort and a plop, like something heavy was flung over the back of a pack animal. Adrenaline coursing through her cleared her vision and she leapt to her feet again, running out of the stables with only her sword.

The moon rose just above the top of the wall, a silver sliver that barely illuminated a bald mage mounting a draft horse. Stanley’s limp form was draped over the broad animal’s back in front of the saddle’s pommel.

“Alarm!” Still running, she found her voice to shout and the watch atop the wall shouted in response.

The mage kicked and the horse gave an unhappy squeal, bolting for the open gate.

The gate was open. Why was the gate open?

The guards on the wall cried out again and archers took aim.

“Hold your fire!” Dagna yelled. She flew down the main steps toward Rachel, outrunning Connor despite their height difference. “You might hit Stanley!”

“They’ve got Stanley?!” was the fearful response from above. “They’re headed for the old ruins! Cross country, avoiding the road!”

Dagna turned to a bleared-eyed stable hand who ran to her side. “Saddle Rachel’s horse—hurry!”

Dagna shoved healing potions into Rachel’s hand. “Put these on your belt. Connor’s coming with bees.”

Rachel raced back into the stable, yanked on her clothes—the miniature Litany of Adralla still in her pocket—and armor, put on her sword and shield, and secured Stanley’s sword and shield to the saddle of her Fereldan Forder, Aveline. She mounted and Connor handed her three jars of bees to attach to her belt.

“Stella will dream us to you,” he said. “Pride can’t hide from me anymore.”

“Arcanist!” A guard ran up. “This was stuck to the gate!” He handed Dagna a scrap of parchment and a knife with a Lyrium blade.

“Seeker, come alone,” Dagna read. “It’s signed Uldred.”

Thunder boiled in Rachel’s brain.

“It’s not him,” Connor and Dagna said in unison.

“The magic song we hear down here tonight,” Connor continued, “It’s from a demon who never entered Ferelden’s Circle tower. And the mage it possesses: His blood song is new to me.”

“If a demon claims a name,” Dagna said, “it’s got a purpose, Rachel. Be careful.”

“Stella and I will find you,” Connor said.

 _Seeker, come alone._ The blood mage would know if anyone else approached, in or out of the Fade.

“No!” Rachel’s horse pranced with anxiousness to go, but Rachel had to be sure Connor wouldn’t follow.

“If we don’t get ourselves home by dawn, it means we’re dead. If my soul leaves my body, I’ll wait for you in the Fade, show you where Pride is hiding.”

Connor opened his mouth, but Rachel didn’t wait any longer.

“’Til dawn!” she shouted and spurred her horse to run toward the ruins.

From the horsemaster’s cabin, Wrinkles let loose a mournful howl. Rachel’s heart howled in response, but resolve flowed through her, too.

 _Stupid demon._ She wouldn’t be alone because Stanley was already there.

-

Stanley woke when someone tossed a bundle of clothes in his face.

“Dress,” a pale male mage with a Lyrium-gaunt face erected a barrier between them, “I can’t have you die of hypothermia before your lover gets here, or she won’t do as she’s told.”

Mindful not to groan or show any sign of physical weakness, he sat up slowly and took a lightning-fast inventory of his body. Vision clear, arms and legs moving.

His hand itched for his missing sword. That was a good sign.

Stanley pulled on the borrowed shirt and breeches. They smelled like they’d been in this damp ruin for a while, but he felt warmer now that he wasn’t naked as a newborn nug.

The stone was cold beneath his feet and his “host” had no fire. Stanley was imprisoned in a ten-by-ten room with no roof. He couldn’t have been out long: The sliver-thin moon rose above the black fingers of bare trees that towered over the roofless space. Dim light revealed elegant, faded elven scrollwork on the walls, confirming his suspicion of where he was, though the view was not as welcoming now as it had been this afternoon. The fourth wall, facing into the larger building, had long crumbled away; all that kept him inside was the blood mage’s barrier.

The stench of rotting flesh seeped toward him.

“Been in that body a while, Pride?”

 _Keep him talking._ Pride loves to boast.

“I’ll have yours soon enough.” The naturally nasal voice held otherworldly undercurrents that betrayed the speaker wasn’t native to the body. “I’m Uldred.”

“No, you’re not.”

The mage pursed his lips and scowled, but quickly regained a friendly façade.

“Drink?” He flicked his wrist and a philter of purplish-blue liquid appeared on the floor in the cell next to Stanley’s bare foot.

Stanley laughed. “You’re more than ten years too late with that trick.”

Sure, if he was left alone with it all night, or for days on end, he would succumb, but he was plenty distracted right now and felt no craving. Plus, it was the wrong color.

The possessed human’s eyes bulged and he clenched and unclenched his bone-thin hands. Pride did not like to be laughed at.

_Get him boasting._

“This your own special blend? It looks like something I saw at the Spire.”

“You’re not half as stupid as you look.” Pride grinned. “Of course I couldn’t very well harry Vivienne with the same methods I use against Connor. I’m too clever for that.”

“Fade demons against the College, tainted Lyrium inside the Circle?”

Pride nodded and gleefully bounced on his toes. “You blame each other, your Seeker kills her Templars, and we all go to war.”

“My—” Stanley’s heart dropped through the floor and he forgot whatever witticism or flattery he was going to use as his next distraction.

Pride laughed at his shock. “Yes! Boil their blood, chop off their heads, take away their precious mages; I don’t care how, just as long as it happens. I was a little disappointed that your meeting with Vivienne was so short; you wasted the perfect opportunity to kill her.”

Mind numb, Stanley’s feet felt frozen to the floor while Pride went on.

“Before the Inquisition, there was the mage rebellion. Before the mage rebellion, there was the blight. Before the blight, Fereldans fought Orlesians . . .” Pride’s smile faded and he paced in agitation. “But now, almost no blood is spilt. The ground is no longer saturated. Wells run clean. _Connor_ —” he spat out the name like Vivienne would spit out the words “blood magic”—“took Lothering’s blight-infected soil back to grow grains _generations_ before it would have healed itself without his magic. There is no blood left!”

Stanley had to get him distracted again, before anger burst the full-size demon out of the rotting shell he inhabited.

“How’d you get Desire and Envy to work together?”

“I didn’t.” Pride looked back to him with a chuckle. “I made separate deals with each. I didn’t care which one got you to bring your Seeker to me.”

“She won’t do it,” Stanley whispered. “We’ll both die first.”

“Oh, she will.” Pride approached with narrowed eyes and barred teeth, boasting over and purpose in sight. “She’ll do anything to get me out of your head.”

Stanley felt a pressure around his skull and chest. Someone poured molten steel and iced water into him with a funnel. He shivered, but his mind remained clear and the man on the other side of the barrier shrieked in frustration.

“Why do you take nothing?!”

“Pride can’t possess the selfless,” Rachel answered as she strode in and threw a jar of bees into Pride’s face with her powerful right arm. Simultaneously with her left, she slid Stanley’s shield face-down along the floor to a spot just shy of the barrier. His sword and another jar of bees were cradled in the shield’s concave bed. If he could only reach them.

Stanley’s heart thudded a deafening war rhythm as he watched, poised to spring as soon as he was free.

Pride roared and sprouted to full-size, lashed out toward Rachel with dual lightning whips. She rolled between its scaly legs and the whips felled the outer wall across from Stanley’s cell. Stanley jumped back as Rachel danced in front of the barrier; she hit her sword on her shield, taunting Pride to spin around and lash out again, still missing her as she rolled, but cutting through the barrier.

He was loose!

Stanley lunged forward, picked up his sword and shield mid-roll, and tossed his jar of bees into Pride’s face. The demon roared again, clutching its face.

Rachel cast spirit blades and Stanley heard his sword hum in his hand. He thrust it into the demon’s knee. Pride bellowed as that leg collapsed under it and Rachel hewed at its opposite arm. The demon leapt up, arms overhead, with a deep laugh, generating Guard.

Rachel threw her last jar of bees in Pride’s face as Stanley stabbed the other knee. Pride wildly swung its whips again, missing both warriors.

“Embrace the light, asshole,” Rachel said, and a blinding pillar of light erupted from the heavens to skewer Pride from above. The beast threw its head back in one, last angry roar, silenced by Stanley’s sword piercing its throat with the killing blow.

He yanked his blade free. Pride fell to its knees, head bowed, and evaporated into Fade dust.

The sudden silence, punctuated only by the two warriors’ panting breaths, made his ears ring.

“So,” Rachel asked, “is this what you city boys do at night?”

Stanley dropped his sword and shield on the stone, strode over, took her cheeks between his hands and kissed her senseless.

“Sometimes,” he said when they came up for air, “but I’ve got another plan I think you’ll like better.”


	9. Epilogue

Rachel snuggled further into Stanley’s side, nothing between them but skin and love. He was fast asleep on his back, left arm stretched open toward her in invitation. They’d snuck into the honeymoon suite of the College’s keep a night early, not wanting to sleep in the barracks. They’d decided on a wedding at home, officiated by the Grand Enchanter, instead of a Chantry wedding.

A gentle tap sounded on the door. She was tempted to ignore it, but she didn’t want the visitor to knock again and wake Stanley. Rachel kissed his cheek and pulled his shirt on before opening the door.

“It’s nearly midnight,” Dagna whispered. She pulled Rachel into the hallway. “You can’t see each other before the wedding.”

“But—”

“I’ve got a room all set for the beautiful bride.” Dagna gently shut the door and steered Rachel down the hall.

Rachel looked over her shoulder. Rane sat down in a straight back chair next to the door and leaned back with crossed ankles. He smiled and waved.

Rachel suddenly remembered she wore nothing under a billowing linen shirt that barely covered her bum.

“Dagna!” she hissed. “I’m not dressed.”

“No one cares, dear.”

“ _I_ might care,” Rachel grumbled.

“Here we are,” Dagna opened a door with a flourish and pulled her into Stella and Rane’s room, where Stella stood looking bemused.

Rachel eyed Dagna suspiciously. “You’ve got Rane guarding Stanley.”

“Yes.” It was all puppies and rainbows to Dagna.

“And you’ve got Stella guarding me.”

“Yes. No peeking before the ceremony! Sweet dreams, ladies.” Dagna hugged them both and whirled out of the room.

Stella gave Rachel a sympathetic smile. “I’m supposed to sit on you if you don’t comply.”

Rachel laughed and shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, but I wouldn’t mind borrowing some nightclothes.”

-

Stanley woke with too-bright sunlight in his eyes and only a blanket for company. His shirt was missing, but all of Rachel’s clothes were still on the floor where she’d dumped them last night. He pulled on his breeches and stuck his head out the door. Rane sat with his head and chair leaned back against the wall, dozing.

“Good morning,” Stanley said.

Rane slammed the front legs of his chair down and bolted upright. “He didn’t leave, I swear!”

“Relax, Rane,” Stanley stepped out and closed the door. “It’s just me. Did Dagna spirit away my fiancé?”

“Hm-mm,” the red-headed mage nodded and rubbed his eyes. “It’s unlucky to see the bride before the ceremony.”

“It’s not, kid, but it does mean I didn’t get lucky this morning.”

Rane’s eyes widened with understanding.

“Don’t worry,” Stanley flung a bare arm over his shoulder, “I’ll live. Let’s get ready.”

-

Rachel wiped an invisible speck of dirt from her dress boot and straightened with a sigh in front on the full-length mirror Dagna had set up in an elegant red tent by the stables. She knew Stanley was in an identical tent on the other side of the courtyard, but Stella and Rane had ensured the bride and groom hadn’t seen each other all morning.

She clutched her trembling hands together, anxious to see Stanley, but forbidden to do so until noon. The waiting was agony.

“This is ridiculous,” she told Stella as she strapped on her dress sword, “We’re both wearing our dress uniforms. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before. He’s wearing the same jacket and pants I am.”

“Your hair is different,” Stella offered. “He hasn’t seen that yet.”

When Rachel had arrived at the tent with her hair in her usual braid around her head like a circlet, Dagna had tisked and sat her down in a chair. The Arcanist brushed out her auburn hair and re-worked it into an intricate oblong braid interwoven with yellow rosebuds and pinned up along the back of her head.

“It gives you the golden glow of royalty,” Dagna said. Rachel blushed. “Ooh, and rosy cheeks are attractive, too.” That earned her a scowl and the Arcanist left with a giggle.

That was an hour ago and they were still waiting for the okay to start the processional.

“Stella,” Dagna peeked her head in, “A moment? Oh, and Rachel, you have a visitor.”

As Stella exited the tent, a figure in a green cloak ducked in and pulled back her hood to reveal ash blonde hair and sparkling green eyes.

Queen Margaret. She wore prowler armor embossed with the Theirin family crest. The Trevelyan family crest was stitched on the breast of her cloak.

“Your Majesty!” Rachel got down on one knee and the Queen laughed.

“Rachel,” she said. She helped her to her feet and enveloped her in a hug, “You used to call me Margie. I recall defeating several terror demons together.”

Margie waggled her eyebrows, “And bemoaning blond men while drinking together.”

Rachel laughed and hugged her back. “Yes, Margie, I remember. I’m honored you came to see two old soldiers get hitched. I just didn’t think Denerim could do without you for so long—not that Alistair can’t handle it alone—I mean—Oh, Maker . . .” She hid her face in her hands.

Margie laughed and hugged her again. “Alistair wanted to come and see Connor, but he drew the short stick.”

Rachel drew back, stunned. “Ferelden’s monarchs make decisions by drawing straws?”

“It’s our last resort.” She kissed Rachel’s cheek. “Congratulations. I better go check on your present.”

“What present?”

Margie breezed out of the tent, calling over her shoulder, “Special delivery from Highever.”

Rachel sighed. She didn’t really care about presents; she just wanted to see Stanley.

“Andraste, make it noon already.”

-

Stanley bounced on his toes at his tent flap, anxious to get going. He was getting married today. To Rachel. He wanted to shout it from the top of the Frostbacks.

“Andraste, make it noon already.”

In instant answer, a flourish of trumpets announced the moment and he stepped out into the sun, where hundreds of friends and colleagues stood to witness.

Rachel stepped out from the tent across the courtyard and gifted him with a smile of serene joy. She was gorgeous.

They walked toward each other and met in the middle, next to a platform erected in front of the well. Hand-in-hand, they climbed the stairs to stand before Connor.

Stanley leaned back to check out her hair. “Very nice.”

“Thanks.” She blushed and he responded with his cheekiest grin, thrilled that this brilliant woman held his hand. Stanley watched Rachel watch him back, his chest and mind filled with awe.

Connor, being Connor, didn’t use any Chantry prayers or mention spicy romance in his introduction. With a kind smile, he briefly spoke of respect, partnership, and long companionship. Then he invited them to speak.

“Those who are to be joined in matrimony, state your position.”

“Stanley, Lieutenant of the Guard of the Independent College of Magi.”

“Rachel, Lieutenant of the Guard of the Independent College of Magi.” Her voice was so beautiful, it healed his heart.

Connor turned to Stanley, “Have you the rings?”

Stanley beamed at him. He had been waiting for this moment ever since he received a letter confirming that the King himself would send a surprise gift for Rachel from Fergus Cousland’s estate.

Stanley whistled over his shoulder and called, “Anne!”

A mabari puppy with a giant yellow bow around her neck shot out of the stables with excited yips, ran over on huge paws and floppy legs, and bounded up the platform steps. Rachel instinctively dropped Stanley’s hand and knelt down for the dog to launch into her arms and frantically kiss her face.

Laughing and crying in equal measure, Rachel held the wiggling puppy while Stanley struggled to get the two gold wedding bands free from the yellow ribbon.

“Where did you come from, little girl?” Rachel asked.

“Teyrn Cousland,” Stanley pulled the rings free and handed them to Connor. “Turns out the King’s cousin can connect you with anyone. This brave little warrior puppy’s grandmother helped Lady Katherine defeat the archdemon.”

Eyes wide with wonder, Rachel set Anne down, took Stanley’s face between her hands, and kissed him.

Hoots of approval went up from the crowd.

“Hey, guys!” Rane shouted. “You’re supposed to do the rings first.”

Rachel pulled back with a laugh and Connor guided them through the ring exchange.

“I now pronounce you—” Connor raised an eyebrow as Rachel pulled Stanley into another premature kiss—“husband and wife.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Check out my Pinterest board for this story at https://www.pinterest.com/dafan7711/guard-my-heart/
> 
> Want to know more about the secondary characters? It all started with The King and the Inquisitor in my Inquisitor Romances series. My series Beyond Circle, Beyond Order currently focuses on the people of the College.


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